Friday, September 20, 2013

Exciting News and an Excerpt . . .

It gives me great
pleasure to announce that BOUND TO THE HIGHLANDER, the forthcoming novel by
Kate Robbins, has won the 2013 TARA Award for
Historical Romance! The book tells the story of two people forced to marry by
circumstances in the era of King James I. The award is given by the Tampa Area
Romance Authors, a chapter of the Romance Writers of America. The contest
judged the first 4,500 words and was open to unpublished and published writers,
but for an uncontracted manuscript. At the time, Kate hadn't received her offer
from Tirgearr Publishing. The book will release on October 10.

"This recognition only adds to
the excitement building inside me about releasing my first novel," Kate
commented about the news. "To the world. So anyone can read."

Here's an excerpt:

Near Inverness, Scotland, April 1430

A horse’s scream pierced the air sending a chill down
her spine. Brèagha. Aileana Chattan quit pacing and dashed to the
window. Thank God, they were home at last.
She strained toward the eerie quiet below just as the
procession crested the hill beyond the gatehouse. She was right, it was
her uncle’s horse Brèagha, but the poor beast hobbled as three men
grasped his leather reins and struggled to keep the distressed animal in
check. Bile rose in her throat when she spied the body face down across
its back.
She tore through the hallway, down the winding stairs
and raced out into the courtyard. Cold mud soaked her feet and her
heart pummeled as the somber hunters approached. She looked to Andrews,
her steward, to confirm her fear.
“I’m sorry, lass.” He shifted his weight, but did not look up.
Her gaze returned to the body. Fiery red hair hung in
tangles and pale, limp hands were red streaked. Shivers coursed through
her as she beheld his unmoving form.
Her uncle, their chief, was dead.
A soundless ‘No’ faltered on her lips. Men and horses
spun around her, threatening her balance. She reached out to cling to
something. Anything. Air slipped through her fingers as she stumbled
forward. Andrews caught her the moment her knees buckled.
“I’ve got you, Lady Aileana. Come, we must get him inside.”
He placed one strong arm around her shoulder and kept her moving forward, her feet skimming the ground.
No one spoke as they entered the large stone and
wooden stable. The huntsmen pulled her uncle’s body from the horse’s
back and laid him at her feet. She dropped to the ground beside him. The
foul stench of manure filled her nostrils and she fought the urge to
retch.
“Why did you bring him in here?” The stable was no place for their chief.
“He ordered us. We had no other way to get the laird’s body home and he wanted us to save Brèagha for you,” Andrews said.
Her gaze shifted between her uncle’s body and the
horse’s wild eyes. She swallowed the thick knot which had lodged in her
throat.
“What happened?”
“We were tracking deer when something spooked him.”
Andrews’s voice was low and grim. “Your uncle’s sword was drawn. They
were both injured when they fell.”
The horse snorted and bobbed his head up and down.
Aileana stood to view his injuries better. A deep gash oozed jagged
crimson lines down his flank, pooling at his hoof. She moved to
Brèagha’s side and buried her fingers in his mane. His coat was covered
with a sheen of sweat.
“Dear God, you won’t see week’s end.” She must save him. “Andrews?”
“Get Argyle’s surgeon,” Andrews said. The stable hand took off to do his bidding.
There wasn’t much she could do for the faithful
beast, but she had to try. Uncle Iain had wanted it. Aileana returned to
kneel by her uncle’s side and brushed a lock of red, matted hair from
his brow. She gathered his limp hand into hers and searched for any
remaining hint of life, but there was none. Aileana closed her eyes,
spilling tears onto her cheeks.
She pictured the two of them walking through the glen
with the heather splashed mountains all around. She had loved his tales
of legends and victories and could feel warm air caressing her skin and
fluttering her skirts. He smiled, giving her all the comfort she
needed.
Brèagha’s grunt brought her back to the present and
her eyes flew open. In this story, there was no victory. Her velvet gown
was no protection from the cold, uncaring earth beneath her, and the
image of Uncle Iain and the colorful mountains faded to gray.
The men, her men, encircled her. They waited for her
signal to move the body to his room for cleansing. Blood pounded in her
ears as she struggled to do what she must, though she hated to release
his hands. She cried out when she tried to fold them across his breast,
but they slipped to the ground.
“Let me help, m’lady.” Andrews’ strong, weathered
fingers covered hers and together they laid her uncle’s hands across his
chest. Andrews pulled her up and held her close. His strong arms
tightened around her, reassuring her as she tried to contain her grief.
“Move him,” Andrews said. “Now.”
Thank God for Andrews. He didn’t want his chief laying in filth any more than she did. The men nodded and encircled him.
“What’s this?” The familiar voice boomed from the doorway. “What’s happened?”
Gawain Chattan scanned the stable until his gaze
landed on the body. His tall, thin frame was a silhouette against the
gray sky and his expression was masked, even as he lifted his eyes to
meet hers.
“The laird is dead,” Andrews said.
His words pierced her. This was really happening.

Nina Mason is a hopeless romantic with strong affinities for history, mythology, and the metaphysical. She strives to write the same kind of books she loves to read: those that entertain, edify, educate, and enlighten. When not writing, she works as a communications consultant, doll maker, and home stager.